


I Do

by Amethyststurm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Post-The Sign of Three, Wedding Rings, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyststurm/pseuds/Amethyststurm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course John has to get out and work for a living - but why does he have to stay away when Sherlock craves his touch so much? All Sherlock can do is lay hands on himself and pretend, fantasizing of John's strong hands and the smooth wedding band on his hard cock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Do

If just John could be here instead of the stupid surgery. Of course he needed to work to earn money for his life after the wedding, but did he have to be away so often? It was as though he tried to annoy Sherlock on purpose. Punish him for something. It was cruel, being away for so long, being all ordinary instead of chasing criminals and adrenaline highs with the detective. Those were toxic thoughts, though, and Sherlock exhaled with a sigh. His boredom slowly transformed into frustation and want. Fine. If John couldn't be here, Sherlock needed to take things into his own hands. Quite literally, he decided.

He stood up from the couch and let his dressing gown slide from his shoulders while he strolled into the bedroom. The sheets were still crumpled and smelled faintly of John's expensive cologne. The very sort Sherlock had bought for the wedding. Just the thought that John's naked skin smelled exactly like this made Sherlock's cock twitch and grow half hard in his pyjama bottoms. He searched for something in the drawer of the nightstand and, with a satisfied exclamation, sank down on the bed. Now everything was in its place. The same ring John wore on his finger, glinting on Sherlock's pale skin. Just the way it had glinted when the jeweller had presented it to Sherlock. Excitement and memory fuelled Sherlock's arousal. The weight of the secret, keeping the ring hidden in his bedside drawer until the time was right. The texture on heated human skin, on every inch of his body. Sherlock licked his lips, chasing the taste of tea and salt. By now he didn't even need to force his memory. The images came like sunrays. Like trouble that left him breathless. The way John's eyes had sparkled and the skin had formed small perfekt wrinkles when he said the words. I do.

„I do, John“, Sherlock whispered and stroked over his cheekbone with his own hand. He'd say those two words every day if John wanted him to. The wedding ring was a solid edge against his jawline. Slowly he closed his eyes and caressed his throat, tilting his head backwards. If it were John's hands, they's be strong and calloused, but gentle and steady. They'd know how to draw moans from Sherlock's lips. His breath caught when his fingertips reached his nipples, and although the sensation was dulled by the thin fabric of his t-shirt, lust shot through his body like a chemical reaction. John would get rid of it now, Sherlock reminded himself and and imagined the dark blue eyes, pupils dilated and fixed on Sherlock's. He felt heat creep up into his cheeks and cock at once, leaving him dizzy and panting. The way his length bulged out the silk was on the border between arousing and uncomfortable, and Sherlock chose to delay touching it for while. He liked to kept waiting until the hardness became unbearable.

His phone chimed, but Sherlock ignored it. He bit his lips and continued. He stroked the sliver of exposed skin between pyjama bottoms and shirt, hissing softly whenever he touched the dark hair leading to his belly button. Treasure trail. John had taught him the word. A precious word he'd never delete. Not if touching it, trailing it up and under his shirt felt so extraordinary.

His abdominal muscles twitched when he stroked over them, feather light and teasing. He drew the t-shirt up over his head, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. Cool air hit his chest and he bucked up, making the tip of his cock catch on the fabric of the pants and smearing the first droplets of precum around. A moan that sounded a bit like John's name fell from Sherlock's throat before he stuck his finger into his mouth, sucking on it until it was wet and shining in the dim light. Sherlock huffed, remembering the lights on the dancefloor. They had made the gold and silver in John's hair shine like jewels and Sherlock had almost forgotten his self-restraint, seeing his soldier like this between all the faceless guests. Next to a faceless woman.

Again, Sherlock willed the poisonous thought away and reminded him of where he was, and what he was doing. Yes. John's touch, like a daydream, John's wedding ring on Sherlock's skin. John's voice, a half-moan, half-giggle because of the sparse gingerish chest hair...

Sherlock began roaming his chest again, this time the edge of the platinum ring was catching the hardening nipples with each movement. Metal on hard flesh. Sherlock spread his legs and shuffled lower on the bed. Lifting his hips, he pulled the pants down, finally exposing his neglected cock to the air filled with the scent of sex and fresh sweat. Sliding his hand lower, over his hips, to the inside of his thighs and up again in shapeless motions, Sherlock approached the stiff cock lying on his belly.

The phone chimed again, making Sherlock open his eyes in confusion. No. Not now. He let it clatter off the bedside table, not caring about whoever had the nerve to interrupt him right now. He sighed, allowing the images of John's flushed cheeks and skin glistening with sweat flood back into his mind. John. John, dancing, filling out his grey suit, bending over just so slightly that Sherlock could see the curve of his arse, the strength of his thighs. Promises.

„God, yes...“, Sherlock moaned and cupped the base of his cock with a trembling hand. John's would be steady and reassuring, but Sherlock couldn't have everything. All he needed was the metal on his hardness as he stroked up his shaft. When he reached the wet tip, he let out a shuddering breath, noticing that he had held his breath for too long. Sherlock writhed on the bed, craving John's touch. He stroked himself a bit faster, adding pressure and friction. More. John would know how to make it perfect.

His mind provided him with a whirlwind of images of John now. After the shower, smelling like cheap soap and delicious skin. Sherlock bit his lips and cupped his balls, fondling them softly while his hand sped up. Running through alleys in the dead of night, his loud breathing like an invitation. Sherlock bucked up into his fist, no, John's fist, John's perfect strong fist. The light in the church playing on his slim lips when he leaned forward for the fatal kiss. Sherlock came with a strangled sob, his body tensing up while shooting ropes of hot cum all over his hand and belly. When he was spent, he sank back into the sheets, trying to catch his breath. And dignity. A drop of cum threatened to drip from the platinum ring and Sherlock brought his hand up from his soft cock up to his swollen lips. He licked it off, tasting bitterness and salt.

John could never now. He mustn't.

Sherlock reached down to wipe his hand off on his t-shirt and found his phone buzzing in the heap of clothes. He cursed, picking it up and opening the messages. He had difficulties making out proper words. He couldn't make any sense of it at all, if he was honest. He chose not to. While the images of John faded away, fantasies and bended memories settling in the dark corners of his mind palace again, Sherlock flicked through the messages and typed a reply to Mary, inviting him over for dinner with her, John and the baby this evening. Of course, after work, after the stupid, boring shift at the surgery, John would come home to _them_.

_Can't come. Busy. Lestrade needs my expertise. - SH_

He switched his phone off, stuffing it back into the soiled folds of the discarded piece of clothing. Then he covered his face with both hands to let out an exhausted sigh. The ring on his finger felt cold and too big of a sudden. John must not know, Sherlock thought and plucked the platinum off his hand. It fell into the drawer of the bedside table with a dull sound and was hidden from sight and memory when the drawer was closed.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, pulling a blanket up to his chest and staring at the wall. He needed something stronger than post-orgasm endorphins. Those never lasted long enough, he decided. No matter how often he tried. He knew that, hidden in the flat, there was a syringe waiting for him. Glinting in the light like dark blue eyes on a wedding day.


End file.
